


Double Digits

by fishie_scribbles



Category: Original Work
Genre: Absolutely Shitty Parenting, F/M, POV Second Person, mentions of an eating disorder, mentions of sexual harrassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29145705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishie_scribbles/pseuds/fishie_scribbles
Summary: You’re fourteen. Or maybe fifteen. Sixteen is already too late, too grown up, too conscious and stubborn, already closer to a fully formed person than the clumped-up ideals your parents have passed down on you.Your weight is in the double digits.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Double Digits

**Author's Note:**

> Short piece that I wrote for one of my classes, but then it turned out I cannot read assignment instructions correctly and fucked it up, but at the same time I didn't want to sit on it and decided to just post it here.  
> Most definitely biographical, so... mind the tags, for the love of god!

You’re fourteen. Or maybe fifteen. Sixteen is already too late, too grown up, too conscious and stubborn, already closer to a fully formed person than the clumped-up ideals your parents have passed down on you. Still wallowing in the expectations others formulated the moment you took your first breath but convinced that the music you listen to has made you free.

Your weight is in the double digits even if your height would want you to be heavier. The skin that covers your flesh is stretched to a layer so thin you need to sit on pillows to avoid having your bare-bones rub against the seating, so thin the tips of your fingers are blue, the tip of your toes are purple. This is normal.

You fit into your best friend’s clothes, the girl your mother constantly describes as being too thin. You fit into your best friend’s clothes, but your mother tells you you’re at least five pounds away from even being at least  _ somewhat _ cute. You fit into your mother’s clothes with room to spare, but your mother glares at you if you eat a piece of candy she hasn’t approved of.

The rules of the house are mostly about food, what can be eaten, when it can be eaten. It’s impossible to think that you could just ignore them, even if your stomach growls. Sometimes you sneak out to get ice cream and eat it with your back that gives on the old, empty moat.

Typing stories keeps your fingers occupied and your mind elsewhere, in a place whose center isn’t your belly, and you post them online. Your following grows, they demand to see your face; you snap pictures of yourself with the computer webcam and send them to your writing friends, and then forget that you’ve taken those pictures in the first place.

When talking with other people, your mother pretends to be a lion:  _ If they were to ever assault my daughter, I’d kill them all _ . You buy a short skirt for Halloween so you can wear it to school; there’s going to be a party, your very first one. You think it’s going to be just like in those American movies. Your mother looks at you and says:  _ If they touch you, don’t come crying to me _ . Nothing happens, they compliment your skirt, your hair, your boots, and when you go home and tell your mother, she looks almost disappointed that people respected you.

Then it happens. It’s a professor, someone with tenure that everybody loves. You manage to push him away but all of your muscles get pulled; until that moment, you didn’t even know you had muscles, only bones and tendons. You suddenly realize he could pick you up and put you wherever he wants. You run and are suddenly aware that you don’t have enough food in you to do it for a long enough time. He could catch up to you. How much can a moderately healthy man in his middle age lift?

You get home, you tell your mother.  _ Only pretty, skinny girls get molested,  _ are the words with whom you’re dismissed. That’s enough to throw any logic away; eat, and you’ll be safe.

You gain weight. You still fit in the same clothes you fit in before. No one bothers you anymore, and if the conscious mind tells you it’s because you’ve learned how to talk back and stand your ground and punch hard enough to leave bruises and make noses bleed, from a deeper layer your mother’s voice hisses.

The pictures you took back in the day mock you when you find them years later. The girl frozen in time was heaps of exposed bones covered by oversized clothes. You look in the mirror and you’re considerably heavier than before, but in your mind you’ve always looked like this.


End file.
